"Yes, warrior," she whispered. "Each wound you inflict upon me strikes you as well. Our lives are linked by the sting of the deathmirror beetle. But I am stronger now than you. Go on. Strike me again. I will survive the blow. You will not"

Tyveris shook his head, fighting to stay upright. He knew she was right. Darkness swam dangerously at the edges of his vision. Her magic had weakened him, drained him of his strength. His muscles felt as if they'd been turned to water. He looked down at the sword in his hand, sharp and wicked, slicked with blood. For so long the blade had been his life, everything that he was. Now it had failed him. He had nothing left.

No, he told himself, that wasn't true. Remembered words echoed in his mind. You possess something else, Tyveris, something she does not. But what had Mother Melisende meant? Understanding washed over him, accompanied by a wellspring of fear that eddied darkly in his chest. He pushed that fear aside as best he could. He knew what he had to do.

The sword slipped from his fingers to clatter against the stone floor. He sank to his knees before Kelshara.

"The cards never lie," she purred. "You truly are no warrior." She picked up the sword in both hands. "You are nothing."

Tyveris did not look at her. Instead he clasped the ancient quill still tucked into his belt. He had heard the loremasters at the abbey calling upon the power of their G.o.d before. He knew that, sometimes, there was great magic in those prayers. Still, he was no priest. He could only hope that Oghma would hear his words anyway.

With a look of animalistic exultation, Kelshara lifted the sword. "All men die," she said coldly.

Tyveris gripped the holy relic. "I have faith that you will help me, Oghma. Grant me your protection."

As Kelshara raised the sword to strike, a blue nimbus sprang to life about the relic in Tyveris's hand. He felt a warmth touch his heart. The soft illumination enshrouded him like a cloak. It brightened, deepened. He rose to his feet, new vigor flowing through his veins. The necromancer stared at him, the fear finally clear in her violet eyes. He was stronger than she had ever imagined.

"I've won, Kelshara," he said solemnly. "Give me the Tear, and I-"

His words trailed off as the blue nimbus surrounding him flared. A thin, gossamer tendril uncoiled itself from the magical aura, reaching out for Kelshara.

"No!" the sorceress cried out, backing away, her voice trembling with revulsion. The sword dropped from her hands and clattered to the floor. 'The deathmirror beetle should only link us in pain!"

She shrank back from the divine aura, step by step, but the blue glow steadily followed her. Finally she backed up against the ledge of the chamber's arched window. The tendril of holy light coiled about her like a shroud. "It's burning me!" she screamed. "Help me! Someone please help me!"

"I will help you, mistress," a wet, bubbling voice croaked. Toz pulled himself slowly to his feet, the knife still lodged in his chest. He grinned, his jagged teeth stained dark with blood. "I am your servant, after all."

With a cry that might have been sorrow as easily as rage, the kobold lunged at the sorceress, grasping at her with gnarled hands. Entangled in a fatal embrace, the two tumbled backward over the window's ledge.

Kelshara shrieked. "But I am going to live forev..." Her cry ended abruptly.

The necromancer's life had ended. But her magic had not.

The tendril of azure light still linked her to Tyveris, reaching him from outside the chamber's window. Even as he watched, a darkness seemed to climb up the s.h.i.+mmering rope like a sinewy viper as black as midnight. It was the final culmination of her spell. Death had taken Kelshara. Now it was coming for him.

The darkness snaked toward him along the tendril, closer, no more than an arm's length away. One touch, and Tyveris knew that he would die. But how could he fight death itself?

It will protect you in the dark days to come.

There was no time to think about it. Gripping the quill tightly, Tyveris thrust his fist toward the thread of darkness.

"In the name of Oghma, be gone!" His voice boomed through the chamber.

Blue light flashed, and thunder shook the tower to its very foundation. The magic was shattered. Shards of azure and onyx flew in all directions. Then came silence. Tyveris blinked. Both the dark and light tendrils were gone. The ancient quill lay in his hand, looking dull and quite mundane.

Tyveris shook his head in wonderment. His body ached terribly, but he was alive. Carefully he tucked the relic back into his belt. He turned and walked slowly from the chamber, leaving his bloodstained sword where it lay on the floor. The weapon had failed him. His faith had not.

He made his way down the stairs and into the night. The storm had ended, and the moon was out, casting its silvery light over the new layer of snow that cloaked the ground, making everything seem somehow fresh and pure.

He found Kelshara and Toz among the rocks in the desolate courtyard, their twisted bodies covered in a burial shroud of windblown snow. The Tear of Everard lay in the necromancer's outstretched palm, unblemished and perfect.

Tyveris bent down and picked up the s.h.i.+ning jewel from Kelshara's cold grip. Neither the sorceress's dark magic nor the fall from the tower had damaged the Tear. Just more proof of Oghma's divine presence in the world, Tyveris decided, and he headed off into the night.

When Tyveris finally reached the abbey on a bright winter's afternoon, he found the gates open wide. It looked as if all the loremasters had gathered in the courtyard to greet him. He swung down from the pretty black palfrey, grinning foolishly at them all. The news of his battle with Kelshara-and his recovery of the Tear-had obviously proceeded him.

"Welcome home, Loremaster Tyveris," Mother Melisende said, her eyes sparkling brightly. "Welcome home."

The Family Business

James Lowder

"There's a rider coming," the Shadowhawk hissed, his breath turning to steam in the chill midnight air. "You remember what I told you? You get 'alf of what we pinch from the bloke, right?"

"Yes," the young boy replied meekly. He picked at the loaf of stale bread jutting out of the small pack at his feet, then looked up at his father. With wide brown eyes, he pleaded to be released from the frightening task that loomed before him. In reply, the Shadowhawk frowned and pushed his son through the tangled hedgerow separating them from the road.

Artus Cimber tumbled through the th.o.r.n.y branches, recently laid bare by the first bl.u.s.tery days of winter. As he stood and brushed off his threadbare tunic and breeches, he looked into the darkness down the packed dirt trade road. In one direction the way ran empty and arrow-straight much farther than the boy could see, almost until it reached the peaceful hamlet of Irath. In the other, it made a gentle curve around a tree-lined hill before striking north toward Waymoot. There wasn't the slightest hint of a horseman from either direction.

How can Father tell someone's coming? Artus wondered. I can't even see as far as I can throw a stone.

The boy glanced up, only to find the moon hidden behind iron-tinged clouds, swollen with snow. To one side of the trade road, past the th.o.r.n.y hedgerow, trees hunched like sleeping giants on a hill. On the other, fallow fields stretched for miles. Lights shone in the windows of a farmhouse, nestled atop a faraway ridge, but they appeared as tiny, flickering pinpoints. Artus would have mistaken them for fireflies, had it been summer.

"Not enough light to see anything," he whispered and tugged at his mask. After adjusting the tattered strip of cloth around his eyes, he squinted into the darkness once more.

Curiosity quickly overcame the boy's fear as he tried to puzzle out just how his father had detected a rider. He c.o.c.ked his head and listened for the telltale sounds of hoof-beats on the frozen ground. An owl hooted occasionally from a branch high on the hillside. At the farmhouse, a dog barked at some annoyance, yelping and whining in fits. But those were the only sounds on that lonely stretch of road- though the young boy's heart was pounding so hard he wondered childishly if someone might hear it, too, if they listened hard enough.

Artus pressed a hand to his chest, hoping to m.u.f.fle the hammering. Of course it wouldn't stop. He softly cursed his fear, but choked on the words; if he spoiled the job by making too much noise, his father would beat him for certain. There was nothing the Shadowhawk cared about more than his work, and Artus was suddenly petrified at the prospect of failing him.

Scoril Cimber was the most famous highwayman in the kingdom of Cormyr, known as the notorious Shadowhawk. If Scoril himself were to be believed, that fame extended throughout the disparate countries and city-states that made up the Heartlands, but even at seven, Artus could tell when his father was stretching the truth. And though the Shadowhawk was an overly proficient liar, it could not be denied many in Cormyr respected him as a master of his craft. Dozens of men from the Thieves Guild in the capital city of Suzail pet.i.tioned him regularly for apprentices.h.i.+ps. Scoril would accept none of them; if his craft was to be pa.s.sed down, it would be through one of his two sons.

This cold Uktar night, it was Artus's turn to take up the mantle. His elder brother, Oric, had proved himself much more adept at robbing people. He was agile and as strong as many men twice his ten years in age. Yet Oric had also demonstrated himself incurably stupid time and time again-forgetting to disarm his victims or blurting out his father's name during a robbery. Never a patient man, the Shadowhawk couldn't bear these mistakes. So it had fallen upon Artus to become an apprentice highwayman. And even though he loathed the idea, he did his best to make his father happy.

Tonight, as on most nights, he failed.

"You're as bad as Oric!" The words struck Artus at the same time as the blow landed in the small of his back. The boy fell onto his chest, his ears ringing, his heart fluttering like a trapped songbird.

The Shadowhawk snorted. "You're lucky there ain't no rider."

"No rider?" Artus repeated.

"Course not." The highwayman tossed a small pack at the boy. "It was a test and you failed. What did I tell you about standing too long in the road during a jaunt?"

"That it's dangerous," Artus replied. He sat up and slid his pack onto his shoulders, but kept his gaze carefully locked on the scuffed tips of his boots.

"And?" the Shadowhawk prompted, pulling the boy to his feet.

Artus buried one hand in his pocket. Drawing it out again, he opened his grimy fist to reveal a blue gem, which glowed softly with a magical radiance. "And always keep this tight in one hand."

"The stone'll protect you, keep you from being trampled. You remember that stiff I showed you in Suzail, the knuckler what got run over by the wagon?" The pained look on Artus's face, heightened by the weird radiance of the stone, was answer enough. The pickpocket's b.l.o.o.d.y corpse had taken up a vivid residence in his memory. "Well, you'd look just as bad if a warhorse galloped over you."

Scowling, the Shadowhawk brushed away the lone tear meandering down the boy's cheek. "Oh, you're not 'urt," he murmured. "Right?"

"No, Father," Artus said between sniffles.

"These jaunts are for your own good. There's always danger if you're going to be a scamp, and I've seen a lot of blokes get killed being careless." He reached down and tucked the boy's tunic into his belt. "But you've got something they didn't 'ave, right? You've got brains. That makes you better than the little brats what only earn their blunt as buzzmen, swiping 'andkerchiefs and 'ats from the swells in Suzail. You can be a scamp, like me. Maybe even a good one."

The boy nodded and looked up at his father. The hood of the Shadowhawk's black cloak hid his stern features. That ma.s.sive, shapeless cape had become a trademark of sorts for the highwayman, for it concealed both his face and his form. In the steady light of the gem, though, Artus glimpsed his father's hooked nose and the strange, predatory glint in his green eyes.

He'd seen that look many times on jaunts, but the first had been two years ago, when his father had beaten a fellow scamp unconscious on the road outside Suzail. The Shadowhawk, his hood knocked back in the fight, had stood over the man in mute triumph, a.s.sured the brigand was completely in his power. Now the gaze revealed how confident the Shadowhawk was his son had no ambitions, no dreams other than those he had instilled in him.

So intent was he upon Artus that the Shadowhawk didn't hear the oddly m.u.f.fled sounds from up the road until it was too late. There was no thunder of hoofbeats, no clink and clatter of tack to warn of the approaching warhorse; the mount's magical horseshoes did their best to mask these noises. The barely audible creak of leather as reins and harness and saddle strained on the galloping destrier-this was all that alerted the highwayman to the threat at his back. He looked up just in time to see the ma.s.sive white horse bearing down on him. Its rider, oblivious to the obstacle, stared intently over his shoulder.

"Tyr's eyes!" the Shadowhawk cursed and threw himself on top of Artus. At the same instant, the glowing gem in the boy's fist flashed brightly. A sphere of light welled up from the stone to surround the unfortunate pair huddled directly in the destrier's path.

The shout and the burst of magic from the gem snared the rider's attention, but not soon enough for him to do anything to avoid the pair. He wrenched the reins, but the warhorse half-jumped, half-stumbled over the highwayman and his son, its hooves rapping a loud and threatening drum roll on the arcane s.h.i.+eld. The force of the a.s.sault knocked the magical bubble a dozen yards down the road. It rolled like a crazed billiard ball with the two robbers tumbling inside.

As soon as the danger had pa.s.sed, the gem drew in the force s.h.i.+eld, and the battered duo a.s.sessed their situation. The Shadowhawk had gained a few bruises and a throbbing headache from the tumble, Artus not even a scratch. The highwayman shook his head, the severe frown telling the boy quite bluntly this trouble was his fault and he would pay for it. The Shadowhawk probably would have meted out that rough justice, too, if the destrier and its rider weren't sprawled, unmoving, at the edge of the road opposite the hedgerow.

"I'll check him," Artus said, adjusting his near-empty pack on his shoulders. If the jaunt went well, the sack would soon be full of coins and anything of value they might be able to fence in Suzail.

"Yeah, awright." The Shadowhawk rubbed the welt on his arm roughly. "Give 'im a topper if 'e's twitching too much."

Artus shuddered. Robbing people at knifepoint was one thing. Bas.h.i.+ng them on the head was another. He knew his father dfdn't kill people-"doing the out-and-out" the thieves at the guildhall called it-but the Shadowhawk never s.h.i.+ed away from roughing up a swell who resisted too much or a tax collector who threatened to bring the law after him.

The moon struggled from behind the clouds, casting its wan light over the road. Fortunately, the rider looked like he was in no shape to put up a struggle. He lay face down, his arms spread to his sides, his breath wheezing from him in bursts. He'd fallen clear of his mount, which was for the best; the horse had landed in a heap. Its neck was twisted grotesquely, and blood dribbled from its nostrils and mouth. Deep, ragged gouges marred the destrier's legs- wounds it couldn't have received in the fall-but the shattered bone jutting from its foreleg was clearly a result of the collision. The boy was glad the poor beast was dead. Its rider would have had to kill it anyway.

Artus knew his father was watching him, so he steeled himself and strode confidently toward the unconscious man. As he did, he exchanged the glowing gem in his hand for his dirk. That would please the Shadowhawk, he was certain. Besides, the feel of the dagger in his palm took his mind off the white, staring eyes of the dead horse and the uncomfortable p.r.i.c.kle of his father's gaze.

The rider was wealthy, of that there could be little doubt. As Artus rolled him over, the moonlight danced over the silver links of an expensive chain-mail s.h.i.+rt. The man's cloak was new and fur lined at the collar to keep out the winter chill. His boots were tooled from the finest leather, as were his gloves and belt. Unlike the thieves, the young knight had bathed recently and his hair was neatly trimmed.

Roughly the boy pulled the man's scabbard from his belt and tossed it aside. Then he reached for the rider's tabard, crumpled by the fall. Wrought of expensive Shou silk, the cloth was emblazoned with the Purple Dragon. Symbol of King Rhigaerd II and House Obarskyr, the Purple Dragon was worn by all who served in Cormyr's military. But the soldiers in Rhigaerd's employ sported white tabards. This man's was gray. And his cloak was not military issue. Artus had seen enough soldiers around Suzail to know that.

"What's the delay, Art?" the Shadowhawk growled. "So 'e's a b.l.o.o.d.y soldier?" The highwayman eyed the man's warm clothes. "Be a good lad and give me 'is gloves. Me 'ands are frozen."

The boy peeled the gloves from the knight and tossed them to the Shadowhawk. "Father, I..."

"Quit stalling! You'll be sorry if 'e wakes up. I'll leave you to fight 'im, you know." The highwayman threw his own rat-nibbled gloves into the hedges and slid the new ones on. "Grab 'is jewelry, if 'e's got any, and whatever blunt 'e's got in that stuffed purse, then check 'is nag for supplies."

Quickly Artus pulled the gold ring from the man's left hand, a wedding band with delicate engraving inside. In the moonlight, the boy could read a name there: Filfaeril. The knight's lady love, it would seem. Without pause, he thrust the ring into his pocket. Once the engraving was smoothed out, it would fetch a good price in the city.

Next he cut the purse from the man's belt. It was heavy, and Artus couldn't help pausing to glance inside. Atop the mound of silver coins lay another ring-gold and encrusted with gems. It, too, bore the dragon of House Obarskyr.

Artus froze. A cold dread spread from the ring to his suddenly numb fingers, up his arms, and finally to his heart. Only one young man would carry such a signet ring. The boy looked at the knight's face. He was the right age, just a little older than the Shadowhawk. And it was said in the Thieves Guild he often rode out of the royal castle in Suzail, disguised as a wandering cavalier, a sell-sword meting out justice as part of a brave band known as the King's Men.

"Prince Azoun," Artus whispered.

The purse slipped out of his fingers, rebounding off his leg before hitting the ground. The coins jingled musically as they scattered over the road. 'The prince," Artus said, turning to his father. "We've got to-"

But something else had captured the Shadowhawk's attention. He fell to his hands and knees, head c.o.c.ked curiously. "Something's coming," the highwayman said. Artus thought he heard an edge of fear in his father's voice. "It ain't on the road, though. More like ... under it."

The road trembled beneath Artus. He tried to stand, but the packed earth under his feet s.h.i.+fted, sending him sprawling atop the unconscious prince. Frantically he reached for the gem in his pocket.

As Artus's fingers closed around the blue stone, something burst up from the dirt next to the dead horse. The boy caught a glimpse of it-s.h.a.ggy hair and beard, all wild and unkempt and matted with soil. That mop seemed to be the entirety of its head and upper body, until it flexed its stubby arms and slashed the air with long black talons.

The creature plunged back into the ground then, just as another surfaced momentarily on the other side of the horse. Together the two creatures circled the unfortunate mount, a track of disturbed earth forming around the corpse. Before Artus could cry out his amazement, a hole swallowed up the entire warhorse.

"Run!" he heard his father shout, but the words seemed to come from very far away.

Brightly the gem in Artus's hand flared to life. The force wall flowing from it pushed his fingers apart, as it always did, and spread out to encircle both the boy and Prince Azoun. Artus felt the globe sink as the earth gave way, opening a wide maw for him. He looked with staring eyes at the still form of Azoun, past him to the translucent blue floor of the sphere. At any moment, the dirt beneath it would fall away and they would be swallowed up, just like the dead destrier.

Then the rumbling beneath Artus stopped. All was silent for an instant as the globe settled in the shallow sinkhole. Nearby, where the horse had been taken, clots of dirt shot from the burrow. They rained down on the road in a soft patter. On the other side of the road, the Shadowhawk crouched near the hedgerow, neither fleeing nor lifting a hand to help his son. Like Artus, he seemed frozen by fear.

"Whatever you do, boy," came a strained, quiet voice, "don't let go olthat gem."

Artus nearly did just that at the unexpected words from the prince, but Azoun reached out and gently steadied the boy's trembling hand.

"W-What are they?" Artus stammered.

Reaching up to gingerly prod the b.l.o.o.d.y wound on his forehead, Prince Azoun said, "Zhentarim a.s.sa.s.sins. Magically altered dwarves, I think. Voracious little beasts called groundlings. How-Ooch." He pulled his fingers away from the gash. "How long can you keep that force s.h.i.+eld up? I think it's blocking the groundlings' tracking sense."

"It stays up by itself, but only as long as we're in danger and the gem's touching my skin. I mean, I can't control it other than that."

"One of the groundlings must be right below us," the prince observed. "Close, too, if it's triggering the s.h.i.+eld." He reached for his sword, but found his belt empty. "Where's my blade?"

The boy gestured to the weapon, which lay in the road, well out of reach. Then he flinched, as if he were expecting a blow for his mistake.

"It's all right," Azoun said kindly. "Just give me your dagger."

The prince took the small, rather dull knife and rolled onto his knees. The movement caused the thing in the ground beneath the force globe to stir, and the sinkhole grew deeper as the groundling blindly expanded its burrow. The sphere of magical energy sank into the earth, far enough that Artus could barely spy his father as he huddled near the hedgerow.

The boy soon regretted even that limited vista.

From the wide burrow that had swallowed the prince's horse, a coa.r.s.e laughter began to echo. The hacking was soon accompanied by the sickening crack of still-warm bones breaking. Limb by limb, rib by rib, the destrier's remains flew out of the burrow. The gory missiles landed in the gra.s.s, bounced off the force s.h.i.+eld, even buffeted the Shadowhawk. The bones had been stripped of most of their flesh by the a.s.sa.s.sins, the tack and saddle chewed almost beyond recognition.

That was more than enough to panic the highwayman. With a single glance back at his son, the Shadowhawk sprang toward the hedgerow. He fixed his cold eyes on the hillside beyond. The trees, leafless in the Uktar wind, promised safety with their high branches. If only he could reach them....

As soon as the highwayman moved, three tracks of churning earth shot across the road-two from the horse's grave, another from beneath Artus and Azoun. The groundlings burrowed furiously after the Shadowhawk, like sharks in b.l.o.o.d.y waters. They converged on him just before he reached the row of th.o.r.n.y bushes at the road's edge. Clawed hands burst through the topsoil and closed around his ankles. Talons sharp as swords tore deep furrows in the highwayman's boots and painful scratches in the skin below.

The Shadowhawk screamed once before he disappeared into the burrow.

The force globe vanished when the groundlings went after the highwayman. Prince Azoun hit the bottom of the sinkhole with a grunt of pain, then reached out to stop the boy from running. Artus ducked the prince's awkward grab, leaped from the hole, and raced to save his father.